


Everything is a Miracle

by Brokenpitchpipe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky Barnes, M/M, Ritual Sex, Sex Pollen, Top Steve Rogers, What's the opposite of a magical healing cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 09:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17958209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenpitchpipe/pseuds/Brokenpitchpipe
Summary: “The King?” Natasha’s eyes don’t widen, but they shift minutely. Bucky knows he’s struck gold.“Yes,” he says, making up his mind. “I wish to bed your King.”Inspired by the music video forMiracleby Caravan Palace.





	Everything is a Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from 'Miracle', by Caravan Palace  
> What better way to get back into writing after a two year slump than gratuitous porn right

Bucky never remembers how he finds them.

He wakes to the taste of honey on his lips and the itch of pollen in his eyes. He blinks awake and the ground underneath him shifts. His heart stops and he throws his arms out to balance himself- but his hands hit soft silk.

He blinks, and looks.

He’s sitting on a stone throne, somehow soft underneath him. His neck is slick with sweat but he’s otherwise fine, if a little confused.

Standing before him, holding two poles that carry the marble throne, are six people. They each wear a thin golden band around their necks, sparkling in the morning sunlight. The women have blue silk tied around their necks and around their breasts, though the men's chests are bare. They all wear dark blue breechcloths with thin golden circles around their waists. One of the men looks at him, dark skinned and silent, before turning back towards their destination.

Bucky’s mouth drops open. Standing before them is a gigantic stone pyramid, six foot high steps around the edges making a tower that stretches into the sky.

Smaller, similar buildings line the forest floor around them, for they’re indeed inside a forest, lush and warm and tropical. The sweat begins to make sense, Bucky thinks, as a gust of humid warm air brushes over his face.

He squints at the tower and sees a figure standing at the head.

“Is that your leader?” he asks, voice soft. The dark skinned man turns back to him and nods.

“That is our King,” he says, surprisingly kindly.

“Oh,” Bucky says. The King stands, holding a thick golden spear in his hand as he watches them, a golden crown above his head- or it might just be his hair. Bucky can’t tell from all the way down on the ground. But he can tell that this man- if he is just a man- is the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his entire life.

He can’t draw his eyes away from the blue breechcloth blowing in the wind, or the golden plates hanging from the King’s neck, or the way his bare stomach swells and relaxes as he breathes, muscles tight, slick, glowing. But it's not his muscles that draw Bucky's eyes the most, it's the faint, possibly imaginary glints of gold on either side of his bare chest.

The brown skinned man snorts, as if he knows exactly what’s going through Bucky’s head. “Yes,” he says. “He has that effect.”

* * *

They lead him away from the tower, much to his disappointment. The caravan stops at the edge of the town, at a blue-and-golden building whose opening is covered by a swath of dark blue fabric, shining and flowing and delicate as silk.

A woman steps out of the entrance and, upon seeing the caravan, drops to her knees. They hit the dirt as one, and before Bucky can say anything, her head sinks to the ground before them, forehead pressing firmly against the soil, hair framing her body in bright, red waves.

“You may meet eyes,” says the man at the front of the caravan, with short brown cropped hair and a bow strapped to his back. The woman rises and nods at him.

“I am Natasha,” she says, turning to Bucky. “I am your aide.”

“My,” Bucky says. “My what?”

“Aide,” Natasha repeats, as the dark skinned man helps Bucky out of the tiny throne.

The archer clears his throat. “You are welcome here,” he says. Bucky meets his eyes- but they fall on the man’s arms, bulging and resting easily by his sides. He’s suddenly a little less annoyed by the number of layers he’s wearing, and he shifts his stance.

The third member of the caravan nods at him, a shorter man with dark hair growing in neat patches around his face. “We will provide you with anything you wish. Food, clothing, dances.” He smiles. “Whatever you ask will be yours.”

Bucky, brain torn between still wondering how he got here in the first place and figuring out what exactly is going on- who these people are, how they got here, what they want with him- just nods dumbly in return.

“Natasha,” the dark skinned man says, and she turns to him. “Clothe and serve the traveler. He must be hungry.”

She nods and gestures for him to come inside. Bucky follows her into the stone building, giving one last look at the receding caravan before he ducks behind the sheet of silk.

* * *

Natasha feeds him fruit and bread and gives him a white gown to wear. It’s soft and light and feels infinitely freer than his sleeved shirt and his trousers, padded and puffed with layers that hugged his skin.

It’s the sweetest fruit he’s ever tasted- as far as he can remember- the seeds stick under his teeth and the juice drips down his chin, his fingers. He licks it off and Natasha laughs, delighted. The bread is warm and soft and when he breaks it, the steam licks his nose and fills him with warmth. He eats it ravenously, and when his plate is clean and his hands are dry, Natasha takes him from the table.

“Here, traveler,” she says, leading him further into the stone building. “This is your bed.”

“It’s nice,” Bucky says, looking at the silken sheets. “Thank-” But he breaks off as he sees Natasha sliding the blue silk off of her breasts. She stops, looking puzzledly at him.

“We will bed now,” she says, as if this is obvious.

“Oh-” Bucky says, going red. “I- you don’t, uh. Have to.”

Natasha frowns. “You do not wish to bed?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says earnestly. “I’m not really, uh- I don’t like. Women?”

“Oh!” Natasha smiles, looking relieved. “Of course.” She picks up the silk tie and winds it over her chest again, tying it behind her neck. “We will find you a man to bed. Would you like to see the village?”

* * *

She takes him around the few buildings, the highest of which stands tall among the rest, but the King is nowhere to be seen now. Bucky supposes he doesn’t feel like standing around on his tower all day doing nothing but watching. He probably just wanted to see the strange traveler arrive.

Natasha shows him the fishers, the bakers, the fruit gatherers. They all offer him their wares, fresh bread, fresh berries, and a slice of raw fish that he tries to refuse- but he eats it after a minute or so of begging, and it slides down his throat, slippery and cold and satisfying.

“Were any of them suitable bedmates?” Natasha asks him, as they leave the fishers. Natasha keeps her spear at her side, the wooden handle under her careful fingers. It doesn’t have a golden tip like the more intimidating looking spears before which Natasha had bowed, and it’s not made of solid gold like the one Bucky had barely seen, stood atop the high tower.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry,” he adds, at Natasha’s crestfallen expression. “I am... selective.”

Natasha nods. “I see,” she says. “Don’t worry. We will find you someone suitable.”

Two children suddenly run from the edge of the forest, one with strikingly white hair and one with a long brown braid. They each hold a fistful of clumsily picked flowers, and Bucky’s stomach turns over. He takes a step back, puts an instinctive hand out, and Natasha kneels down to greet the children.

“Those are beautiful,” she says.

“They’re for the traveler!” says the young boy with the white hair. The girl with the braid nods, but doesn’t say anything. Natasha looks at Bucky, who gives a minute shake of his head. The sight of the flowers- the pale pink pollen bursting into the air in a sickly-sweet cloud-

“Take them up to the King,” Natasha says. “I’m sure he will be happy to know we are all giving the traveler everything we can to ease his stay with us.”

The girl with the braid nods, smiling, and she tugs the boy’s arm towards the high tower.

Bucky blinks. “The King,” he says, watching the children run.

“The King?” Natasha’s eyes don’t widen, but they shift minutely. Bucky knows he’s struck gold.

“Yes,” he says, making up his mind. “I wish to bed your King.”

Abruptly, Natasha shakes her head, hair slipping past her ears and falling in front of her eyes. With a hurried swipe of her free hand, she tucks it back. “But,” she says. “You can’t.”

“I see no reason why not.” Bucky squares his shoulders, straightens his spine. “I am your guest. I was told anything I asked for would be mine.”

“Not the King,” Natasha says. Her fingers tighten around the spear handle in what Bucky instinctively knows is fear. “You cannot bed the King.”

“I can,” Bucky says. “And I will.”

“You’ll-” Natasha looks over her shoulder at the town square, still full of people milling about, trading goods, gossiping about their new, strange-looking visitor. She grabs his arm and tugs him out of the sunlight, away from view.

“I see no problem,” Bucky says impatiently, as he lets her drag him out of sight of the main village center. “After all, he is beautiful.”

Natasha nods in agreement. “Yes,” she says, “he is.”

“Is he unable to bed?”

Natasha shakes her head. “He is… able,” she says. “But.” Again, she looks over her shoulder.

“You speak only to my ears,” Bucky says. “Tell me.”

Natasha grips her spear so tightly that Bucky worries it’ll snap in half. “He,” she says, voice weak. “He is touched by the Gods.”

“All kings think the same,” Bucky says easily. “My king is of the same belief. I can assure you those claims are unfounded.”

“No,” Natasha says, suddenly looking him in the eyes. “He is touched by the Gods. That body was not given to him by birth.”

Bucky frowns. “What do you mean?”

Natasha sticks her spear into the ground. The arrowhead at the end buries itself in the soil, fertile and soft under their feet. She kneels, rests on the rim of the building. “Our Kings are chosen by tradition,” she tells him. “When a reigning King dies, those who wish to take the throne compete for the Gods’ approval.”

“They fight?” Bucky frowns. “I can fight. Do I need to best him?”

“No,” Natasha says, “no. They go to the high temple and sleep.”

“And,” Bucky prompts, as Natasha worries her lip.

“And,” she says, “only the one worthy of the throne will rise by morning.”

“You’re saying they _kill-”_

“No!” Natasha shakes her head, snatching her spear again and getting to her feet. “No. We are not such violent people.”

“It sounds violent,” Bucky says. “To my ears, at least.”

“The Gods chose him,” Natasha repeats. “And imbued him with powers. They gifted him that body, and with it came strength, patience, and-”

But she breaks off as a handful of gold-adorned guards appear around the corner of the pyramid, each carrying gold-tipped spears. Natasha drops down to her knee in an instant, and Bucky hurriedly imitates her, clumsily dropping down to his knees and pushing his forehead into the dirt.

A hand presses onto his shoulder.

“Rise, traveler,” a voice says, and Bucky looks up to see the dark skinned man from before. “You may meet the eyes of anyone here you wish.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, because it seems the most appropriate thing to say, given the circumstances. “Can I ask your name?”

The man smiles. “Sam. I am a member of the royal guard.”

Bucky’s heart leaps. “I may meet eyes with your companions?” Sam nods.

“Any of them you wish.”

“May I meet eyes with your King?”

Natasha makes a _ssst_ sound from where she kneels, reaching over to smack his ankle. The guards behind Sam all draw their spears, jaws suddenly tight, teeth bared. Sam laughs, and they relax, one of the women giving a soft, annoyed _tut_.

“Natasha,” Sam says, “surely you’re not surprised he makes such a request?”

Natasha, forehead still pressed to the soil, hair splayed out in a scarlet halo in place of her face, shakes her head. “I have told him already that bedding our King is not-”

“Bedding?” Sam’s shoulders stop shaking in laughter, and his legs lock in place. “Meeting eyes with and bedding are not the same.” He turns to Bucky, eyes narrowed. “You wish to bed our King?”

Bucky nods, glad someone around here is taking him seriously. “I do,” he says. “He is beautiful, and I wish to offer myself to him as thanks for his generous hospitality.”

Sam’s lip quivers, but he doesn’t smile. “You would do well to make a different offer,” he says, eyes flicking to the high tower that stands above the rest of the buildings. “I fear you will not like the outcome.”

“I’m not afraid.” Bucky shakes his head. “When has he bed someone last?”

“Never,” Natasha says, voice still barely muffled. “Before he was crowned he was pure, and because of the Gods’ gifts-”

“Natasha,” Sam says firmly, and she falls silent. He frowns, considering the situation. And then- “Very well,” he says. “I shall tell the King you wish to meet eyes. You may tell him of your request then.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, nodding.

Sam gives one final tap of his spear as a goodbye, and the group of royal guards passes around the opposite corner of the building. The moment their feet leave sight, Natasha rises back to her feet, looking thunderstruck.

“Well,” Bucky says. “That went well. Help me back to my chambers?”

* * *

The King stands at the top of the high tower, glowing golden in the evening light. Like the rest of the villagers, he wears mostly gold, circling his neck and curling around his hips, barely hiding anything. It’s enough to spark curiosity in Bucky’s stomach, and he sets to the stairs eagerly as the guards kneel behind him.

Everyone in the village is here to watch, it seems. They all kneel on the ground, hands pressed to the soil, foreheads pressed down. Bucky’s heart stutters but he doesn’t hesitate as he takes the first step leading to the top of the high tower.

It’s hot and it’s sticky-sweet, but seeing the King clearly is more important than comfort, so Bucky climbs. His legs burn and his breath comes in shorter, shallower gasps, but he keeps climbing.

With every step, the King’s frame gets clearer and clearer, until at last his face stands out defined. His jaw is cut and clean, sharp enough to slice Bucky’s thigh straight open and flay it. His eyes burn blue in the sunset, almost green with the golden light that crosses his face. And his hair almost burns, glowing bright enough to blind. He looks down at Bucky without saying a word, as the sheer blue fabric below the gold around his waist blows gently in the evening wind.

He stares down at Bucky, who averts his eyes. There’s something about them- he’s been told to meet eyes with whoever he chooses, with the king, but something stops him now. He keeps his eyes trained on his bare feet as he rises the last few steps.

He falls to his knees as he reaches the top of the tower, wide and stone and smooth. His knees hit the marble and bruise, but he barely notices. He presses his forehead to the cold stone and spreads his fingers wide, palms flat.

For a moment, the only sound is the gentle brush of wind against silk.

And then a hand lands on his neck, gentle but powerful. Bucky looks up and meets the King’s eyes.

He can’t read them.

The King looks at him, curious. His eyes are calculating- but not disdainful. They’re blue, and they flick between Bucky’s eyes silently. Bucky stares back, unable to breathe, unable to blink. The King drops his gaze to Bucky’s jaw, and presses his fingers against the underside of Bucky’s jawbone. Bucky stands, and the King’s hand follows, as if pulling him up.

The King’s fingers are softer than Bucky imagined them to be, soft but strong. They press against his jaw more insistently, and Bucky tilts his head to let the King inspect him. Fingers tug on his ears, pry his eyelids apart, and a strong palm pushes against his bare chest.

Bucky shivers at the feel of the King’s hands on him, touching him in front of his guard, his people, his aides. It’s as if he’s a commodity and the King is checking his quality, and it sends a burn over his face and a thrum in his heart.

“My King?” says the guard atop the tower, the shorter one from the caravan with cropped hair on his face. He’s kneeling by a dark square tile in the soft white stone. The King nods, not taking his eyes off of Bucky, and the guard presses his fingers to the tile, eyes closed. With a soft _hisss,_ the tile retracts into the side of the stone, revealing a dark, inviting stairway.

The King takes his hands from Bucky’s skin and smiles. He offers his palm, and Bucky takes it.

The King tugs, still keeping their eyes locked together, and Bucky follows.

Bucky doesn’t want to break the seamless silence between them as they descend- is it against their tradition? And so he says nothing as the King leads him down the stairs into the darkness. Bucky counts the steps, but the sight of the King’s near bare backside distracts his thoughts from numbers too strongly. It’s as defined as his chest was, his shoulders standing out in stark contrast, shifting powerfully even as he does nothing but walk. Bucky swallows thick in his throat, fingers twitching around the King’s where their hands are still connected.

“My King,” he says, as they reach the bottom of the stairs into a dark, open chamber.

“Traveler,” the King says, voice deep. It sends a rumble down Bucky’s spine, and his heart skitters in his chest.

“I,” he says, suddenly a little less confident. He releases the King’s hand and drops to his knees again, thudding softly in the dark, dim chamber.

The King laughs. “No,” he says, “we have met eyes. You may face me.”

“I wanted to offer you,” Bucky says, sitting up, “in- in a token of gratitude for your hospitality-”

But he breaks off as he rises to his feet and meets the King’s eyes. The King’s golden necklace is gone, as is the blue silk breechcloth and the golden circle that holds it. He stands, bare and proud, lit by the torches adorning the walls. The firelight dances over his skin, golden and gigantic and inviting. The muscles drawn from his chest down to his stomach are defined even though the King makes no effort to tighten them. It’s raw power at the King’s disposal, and all Bucky wants is for it to hold him down and take him.

And under each of his soft, dark nipples lies a golden jewel, glinting as the King breathes, as the firelight flickers bright and dim. 

Bucky’s mouth falls open and he takes a subconscious step forward, hand reaching out, fingers trembling.

“Offer?” the King asks, surprised. “You do not need to offer anything, Traveler.”

“I,” Bucky says, “I really. Really do.” He swallows, and straightens his stance, taking his hand back against the desperate cries of his heart. “I wish to bed with you.”

The King’s eyes widen. “Bed,” he repeats, stunned. “I have misheard.”

“No,” Bucky says. “Please. I wish to bed with you. I know of your history now and I know you have not bed before. I wish to offer myself in service to you, as a token of-”

“Stop.” The King stares at him, eyes somehow brighter here in the torchlight than they were in the golden light of the sunset outside. “You. _Wish?_ To bed me?”

“I do,” Bucky says, nodding fervently. “I do. More than anything.”

The King looks him up and down, hesitating. “I do not understand why you desire this.”

“You are beautiful,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “Dazzling. If I never bed another for the remainder of my life, I will be satisfied.”

The King presses a hand to his chest. “For... the remainder of your life?”

“Yes,” Bucky insists. “I don’t care how long I must go without another. If I have you once I will die a happy man.”

The King takes a step back, turning to look at the room behind him. And for the first time, Bucky looks past him to see what lies inside.

A golden, circular bed lies on its own, alone, away from the walls. The torchlight flickers, casting it in a pale golden glow.

“You,” the King says. “You will not have a life. Not if you bed me.”

Bucky stares. The King looks much less regal down here, away from the praise and awe of his subjects and the glow of the sun. But it doesn’t diminish him in the slightest, only makes him look so much more _human_ that Bucky’s stomach turns over on itself, pressing desire, pressing want, pressing _need._

But.

“You brought me here to bed me,” he says, looking between the bed and the King. The King nods.

“It is custom,” he says. “It was our custom. We have not had a traveler in a long time, not since the last King.”

“And what do you do with travelers?” Bucky asks, holding the side of his arm as if afraid someone might strike him.

“We,” the King says. “We treat them as Gods in repayment for their sacrifices.”

And Bucky sees the notches on the bed, the chains, the restraints lying in wait.

But he also sees the bulge of the King’s chest, his soft pink nipples hard and lit so strikingly in the torchlight. He sees the King’s arms, strong enough to break a beast in half, but looking so gentle and careful now.

“Bed me,” he says.

The King looks at the bed, and looks at Bucky. “You’ll die.”

“I know,” Bucky says, nodding. “I don’t care.”

And those arms, those hands- they pull him, push him, like the ocean- until he’s on the circular golden bed with a body on top of his, heavy and warm. The heavy weight of the King’s cock lands on his stomach and he gasps, air leaving his lungs in a great rush. The King swallows his breath with ease, pressing his mouth over Bucky’s and drinking down his moans.

Bucky reaches up to feel the King’s chest, swollen and gigantic and warm- he grabs a handful on either side, thumbs over the soft, soft nipples, so hard, the metal piercings clicking against his fingernails- and the King moans into his mouth, his strong cock pressing harder still onto Bucky’s stomach.

“Open me,” Bucky breathes, as the King pulls off for breath.

“I was not taught,” the King begins, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Open me. I want this to last.” He spreads his legs, and his gown stretches enough to leave nothing between them at last. This isn’t enough for the King, apparently, because his strong-soft hands grab the soft, white fabric and pull. It comes apart down the middle, torn clean in two, and Bucky shivers.

“I will,” the King says, and Bucky whimpers as those strong-soft fingers finally, finally find his entrance.

The King reaches for his cock and coats his fingers in slick before pressing them again between Bucky’s legs, hesitant but curious, unskilled but unwavering. Bucky sighs and they slide in, one after the other, as if they were meant to be.

The King’s fingers are wider than Bucky’s are, wider and coarser, they tug against the soft muscle inside and send shivers up Bucky’s spine, his toes twitch and he sucks in air through his teeth. The King kisses his chest, tongues over Bucky’s nipples as Bucky had thumbed over his own. It, in turn, is repayment.

“I need,” Bucky gasps, when the King presses his thumb above the muscle, brushing over his skin, thumbnail barely nudging the bottom of his sack, tight and desperate, “I need-”

“I take your generosity,” the King whispers, adding a third and final finger inside and rocking his hand in a steady rhythm in and out. Bucky’s heels hit the edge of the circular bed, metal and cold and captivating. He doesn’t care.

“I _need,”_ he says.

“I take your offering,” the King murmurs, pulling his fingers out at last. Bucky moans helplessly, sweat beading on his forehead. The King’s slick was on his fingers, and it's _inside_ Bucky now; it soaks into his skin, into his muscle, spreads through his body and leaves him sweating and breathless. The King kisses him again, lips on Bucky’s, tongue brushing over his own and pushing into the side of his cheek. The King’s hand presses against the bulge in Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears.

“I,” he gasps, as the King pulls away, one leg on either side of his waist. “I-”

“I take your sacrifice,” the King breathes, and Bucky feels it, the soft, wet head of his cock against the ring of muscle, pressing insistently, gentle but firm, kind but unrelenting. He sobs, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and feels sweat slicking his neck, his hair, his chest.

The King pushes forward and Bucky cries out, mouth open, lips spit-slick of his own accord. The King sighs, voice behind breath, and Bucky’s entire body shivers from the sound. The King’s cock fills him inside out, wet and hot and slick and sweet- Bucky can tell it’s sweet from the feel of it inside of him, sliding out and pushing in, soaking his insides, it sends signals to his brain that he can’t comprehend, it’s too much, it’s too much-

“I take you,” the King says, voice catching, and there are hands on his chest again. He gasps through the sob this time, toes curling, hands trembling, sweat dripping down his jaw and pooling on his chest. Bucky opens his mouth, but before he can say a word the King kisses him.

The bed gives a _hiss_ and begins to turn, as the King thrusts into him steadily, cock sturdy and thick and coursing out sweet, sweet, enslaving nectar. Bucky feels his body turn as the bed rotates, but he doesn’t care. The space under his body begins to lower but his heartbeat doesn’t quicken, doesn’t slow.

The King cries out as his steady hips start to lose their stability, and Bucky presses a trembling hand to his chest, eyes hazy and clouded with tears, but he’s _looking,_ and the King looks back, mouth still on his. Bucky’s fingers curl against his skin, too weak to pull him, to ask-

But the King obeys, and their chests fall flush over one another. The King’s nipples press against Bucky’s, golden piercings cold against the warm flesh. Bucky shivers, sweat sliding across the King’s chest, and shame trickles into his stomach. He’s dying here, dying and leaking tears and sweat and slick, and he’s soiling the King- the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life- the most beautiful man he will ever see in his life.

The King gasps against his mouth and catches his bottom lip between his teeth, drawing blood.

“Take me,” he breathes against the King’s lips, and the King thrusts hard, once, twice, and Bucky _feels it._

He can’t make sound anymore, his lungs aren’t strong enough, all he can do is cry and breathe as his own cock spills over his stomach, over the King’s soft thighs, as his seed drips down onto the slowly revolving bed- and it hurts, his chest hurts, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe-

“I take you,” the King says, lips against his neck, hips moving softly now as he empties himself inside of Bucky, fills him warm and sweet and poisonous. Bucky feels it, as his feet lose their feeling, his thighs, his legs entirely.

“I take you,” the King says, kissing his jaw and his cheek as Bucky’s stomach ceases hurting, as his hands tremble although he can’t feel them, as Bucky’s chest rises and falls without his consent, without his knowledge.

“I take you,” the King says, as Bucky’s eyes roll up into his head- and it claws and scratches and drags him until, finally, he succumbs to the blissful sweet, sweet darkness.

* * *

_aveler?_

_Travel   ?_

_Tr      er?_

* * *

He wakes to honey on his lips.

His tongue wakes before the rest of him and slides out, drinking the sticky-sweetness down.

“Traveler?” says a voice.

Bucky’s eyes open.

The King’s eyes meet his, inches away. They’re not curious, not demanding, they’re hesitant and worried and shining, shimmering.

“My King,” he says, voice clear in his throat. He swallows, and there’s no pain.

The King’s eyes close for a split second and Bucky feels a splash of tears fall over his face. In an instant he can’t breathe again, as the King’s weight lands on his own, nearly crushing him.

“Traveler,” the King breathes, nose pressed hard into Bucky’s neck. “The Gods- the Gods-”

“My King,” Bucky says, hands trembling- but now they shake because his heart beats fast enough to make them soar, not because his body’s losing the energy it needs to survive. “I don’t- understand.”

“I took you,” the King says, pulling away to meet his eyes once more. “The Gods wanted you for themselves but I took you.”

The floor drops, and Bucky’s hands once again surge up to grab at the King’s chest. He looks around the room, forgetting again to take in his surroundings when greeted with the sight of the King’s body in front of him. The room isn’t lit by candles, but by the soft blue light of the sky through gigantic windows adorning every wall. By each window stands a guard, dressed in gold and blue and kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed to stone. He’s grateful for the image of privacy, even if it’s only an image.

But the sky seems to move behind the windows, clouds soaring past, mountaintops yawning as they cross the sky.

“Where,” he says. “What?”

“You are our Traveler,” the King says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You came to us, you gave the Gods your life. And in payment,” he says, and looks behind his shoulder at the clouds. “We may travel.”

“I gave the Gods… but I didn’t,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I’m still here.”

“They took your sacrifice,” the King says, “but I _took you back.”_

Bucky’s mind spins and turns and settles on something that feels like sleep, sex, comfort- warm arms around his waist and a comforting weight on top of him.

“Where are we going?” he asks, closing his eyes and pressing his face into the soft warmth of the King’s chest.

Bucky feels the King smile.

“Anywhere we want.”


End file.
